


Begin To Hope

by susiephalange



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Be Safe My Little Butternuts, Boys In Love, But Be Careful If You're Sensitive To This; That's Why I Tagged it As Teen, Coming Out, Fluff, Foster Care, Hate Crimes, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, male reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 19:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12042516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: When you’re in the foster system long enough, you lose hope.Reader is a young boy stuck in the government foster system, and instead of thrust to another home, he's given to Captainfreakin'America (his words, not mine) and life looks up. But that's until he meets the boy next door...the handsome Peter Parker.





	Begin To Hope

**Author's Note:**

> I had a request on my Wattpad for Peter X Male!Reader and Adopted!Father!Steve & Reader, and I thought I'd expand on my request a little more, make it flesh out. Because of this, I've included a few things I usually don't write into fics, well, one. Violence. My little Readers, if you have clicked on this story because you're into Peter, or like the idea of the fic, be warned as there is a triggering event of Reader being hurt by a group of people for being gay. I know, spoilers, but really, I want you all to be safe, and remember that I try to keep my works as a safe space for everyone. 
> 
> Happy reading, my Butternuts!

When you’re in the foster system long enough, you lose hope. Hope that your real family will ever come back to get you. Hope that anyone will want you when the growth spurts and voice box (and other things) drop. Hope that you’ll be anything more than the abandoned little boy whose parents didn’t want him enough to keep him _and_ their addictions. But that’s life in the present American century, and living below the poverty line was anything but pretty. That’s why you kept fantastic grades up, and whenever you were put in and out of people’s homes, made sure that you passed homework in on time just like any other normal kid. Fantastic grades led to school offers, and by high school, you were accepted into a great one in New York for academically minded students.

Maybe that’s what made your new foster carers take you in. Well, _carer_. You tried not to overthink being fostered by _the_ Captain America himself, living in prime real estate in Queens. But you were right there, standing at his doorstep, waiting for America’s hero to answer the door the foster system woman had knocked on.

“Now, you be nice to Mr. Rogers, _________.” She looked down at you like you were some delinquent who graffitied anything that moved, rather than the A+ scholar you were. “He’s a busy man, and only because of his professional reputation he could foster.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be good, Mrs. D.”

When he answered the door, it was like seeing sunshine coming from behind a cloud you’d forgotten had taken refuge upon the skies. Or something. His face was nice, and stern, but silly and playful all at once, and his eyes lit up at seeing you.

“Mrs. Demarco?” He asked, and looked to you. “You must be _________! Come on in, you guys, I’ve just got everything set up.” He waved the pair of you inside, and following Captain Rogers in, he went on, “I was held up on Avengers business the last month in Mongolia, so I’m sorry if it looks last minute.”

But it didn’t look last minute. His apartment looked like he’d been given a gold ATM card and a million-dollar spending limit. The little apartment had a kitchen connecting to a breakfast bar (which you could picture doing massive amounts of school work on) and just off that was a snug lounge room with a flat screen TV and a –

“You’ve got an Xbox?” You blurt out, and seeing the look Mrs. Demarco give you, you add, in a smaller voice, “Sorry.”

But he smiles. “Don’t apologise! Nat gave it to me last Christmas. We have _Assassin’s Creed_ night every Saturday.” Your eyes widen at the thought that _the_ Black Widow did such a domestic thing of giving Christmas gifts. “Come on, I’ll show you your bedroom. I didn’t know what colour you liked, so I went along with red.”

You nod, following your new foster dad further into the apartment. “Yeah, red’s cool.” Mrs. Demarco didn’t seem to comment on your tone, and glancing to her, she seemed more interested in the potential mould inhabitation than your manner of conversation. Steve Rogers opened a door to the left, and gestured for you to enter. When you did, you felt a wave of something new wash over you. “Wow…”

He’d really gone all out. Never had you had such a great looking bedroom in your entire life – the floors were wood, like the rest of the apartment, with a circular red rug by the bunkbed/desk combo’s ladder. There was a wall-to-floor bookcase opposite the bed, and a little TV screen and a stack of Nintendo Wii fitness and racing games beside it. Most of the shelves had titles you’d read, but some you hadn’t, and two rows of shelves were textbooks for subjects relevant to your new transcript.

You were about to say something else, but from the look Mrs. Demarco gave you, instead, you said, “Thank you, Mr. Rogers.”

He grinned the All-American smile that had made people woozy for generations. “It’s all good, _________. Call me Steve.” He looked to Mrs. Demarco, and added, “Now, is there any more paperwork needed for me to sign off on, fax? I don’t want to put you off schedule, Mrs. Demarco.”

You didn’t pay attention as she withdrew a small package of papers from her case, or that they’d migrated to the table in the living area. Instead, you walked further into your new bedroom, taking it all in. It looked too good to be true, but when you pinched your arm, you realised that it wasn’t a dream. You were _living_ with Steve Rogers, war hero, advocate, Avenger. Placing your small bag of things by the desk, you climb up the bed’s ladder to sit on the edge, like a royal surveying their new domain.

Maybe life was going to get better. Maybe you could begin to hope.

* * *

The day you fell in love was the first day at your new school. No, you didn’t fall for the vice principle, or a garbage can that had been ravished by fetid trash pandas. No, even worse. You fell for the boy next door. Maybe it was because he had perfect hair that didn’t seem to go everywhere in the wind, or that his face was clearer than yours, or that when the bus didn’t seem to stop for you both, he did the dash and had the driver wait for you to catch up.

“Hey, I’m Peter,” he introduced, and patted beside him on the empty seat he’d snagged. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

You shake your head, and take a seat before the bus hits a speed bump. “No, I just moved in. I live at 103 Birch.”

His eyes widen, and they’re so big, it’s almost like in anime when their eyes have sparkles in their irises. “No way! I’m at 102!” He replies, and grabs his phone from his jacket, which has a new message on its screen from someone named _Ned_. “I’ve got cable if you want to come over sometime.”

You grinned, nodding. “Sure!”

It turned out that you’d be coming over for something other than cable. At first, you came over every second afternoon to work on a science project for the school fete. After that, you came over to work on a robotics project you needed a hand with, and his Spanish quizzes. Next, you came over to study physics with each other before exams. After a while, you just came over, your foster dad Steve not worrying about it at all, since he was mostly out of the house with Avengers business. Peter’s Aunt May was like a mother to you, often cramming as much into your mind as Peter would, throwing facts and things she knew from local trivia and _Family Feud_.

It often felt like you had made a good friend, but sometimes, when you were tired with hooded eyes over half-done homework or waiting for the bus with Peter and you’d look at him right, your heart would flutter a little faster. You weren’t sure what you’d call it, since you had no idea what it meant – the internet had some strange videos come up when you’d type in your symptoms, and you weren’t quite sure how to bring it up over breakfast with Steve. So, life went on, and you kept coming over to Aunt May’s and Peter’s house next door.

Another coming over happened on a Saturday. But it wasn’t like the others.

That afternoon, a group of guys from a rival school had caught you off guard after a game of football. They were taller than you, junior year kids who you had no idea why they’d have beef with you. But coming out from the change rooms, they stood there like half-hairy gorillas, pumped up with testosterone and anger, staring you down.

“You _________?” One asked.

You didn’t answer, and another shook your shoulder. “Yeah he’s the kid who’s in love with that Parker boy.”

They laughed, and you took a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about –,” The first guy took a step forward, and then a swing at your face. You were taken off guard, and your back hit the concrete brick wall, your cheek smarting. “Please –,”

“You think you can be gay out here? This is a man’s game.” There was a jab to your shoulder, hard enough that you felt it bruise as it happened. “Go take your fairy feet to do ballet or something.” There was a roar of laughter at that, and the guy speaking went to take another hit at you. But this time, you saw it coming, and ducked. His fist hit the brick wall, and you dodged their forms and ran out of the change rooms, your gear half-out of your bag. “Yeah! Run off to your boyfriend, coward!”

You didn’t stop running until you made four blocks away from the fields, and even then, breathless, you kept going. Your head was screaming all those ugly words those guys had said about you, making you wonder what was your own thoughts or those insults. You didn’t even realise that a car had pulled over, and someone was speaking to you until you heard your name.

“_________?” The voice of Aunt May asked. Your eyes focused on her brown mop, her hands poised upon the steering wheel to her new station wagon. “Come on, get in. I’ll drive you home.” When you got home, however, you saw a note on the table. _Leftovers in the fridge, use my card for takeout. Off to England for funeral. Be back soon. SR x._ When May read the note over your shoulder, she laughed quietly to herself at the flippancy of ‘ _off to England, brb!_ ’ and waved you to grab your toothbrush, a pillow and follow her to the spare bedroom of her house. “You go take a shower, honey, and I’ll grab the first aid kit for that face of yours.” She smiled.

The water hurt on your face, and in the reflection of the recess, you saw that your lip had split, your eye colouring in to become a fancy shade of black. Even your chest had a bruise from the jab. You did all you could not to cry in the shower, and realising how much those words really hurt you, you turned the hot water up a little more and cried until you couldn’t tell which tears were yours or from the showerhead.

But when you were all dressed in your Iron Man pyjamas (a gift from Tony Stark himself), Aunt May handed you a warm blanket, a cold compress, and a seat on her couch.

“Want to talk about it?” She sat you down, snuggling you in with the blanket. The screen was playing a rerun of _Adventure Time_ but you weren’t paying attention. It was like you were hearing in different shades of static, and everything was numb. “_________? Peter will be back home in fifteen minutes –,”

Your fingers touched your cheek at his name, woken out of the daze. You weren’t even sure if it was called shock, or maybe hibernation, but once Peter was mentioned, you were pulled out of it. “May?” you say, voice small, “I don’t know who did it to me.”

She nods, and takes a seat beside you, stroking back hair that had fallen into your eyes. “It’s okay. Do you remember what they looked like?” You spurt off the details, as May writes them down, and when your mind can’t remember any more about those guys, she strokes your hair once again. You’re not sure what good writing down who those people were would do, but you’re just sitting there, watching as Finn and Jake jiggle with a strange creature on screen. Soon, the door closes, and May calls out, “Peter? Honey, _________’s here…” May leaves your side, and soon, Peter’s there.

When you look at him, he’s got red cheeks and wind-ruffled hair and a sliver of red peeking out from underneath his t-shirt. His eyes are wide, and he looks sad, and then you realise that he’s looking at you.

“Who did this to you?” He demands, brow set like an angry kitten.

You shake your head. “I don’t know.” A beat passes between you, and you add, “Not the first time I got beaten up.”

He nods, and slowly, opens the blanket up and puts an arm around you. He’s warm on his own right, and smells faintly of the specific kind of sweat one gets in gym class and watermelon gum, but you don’t care. He’s here. You feel guilty suddenly, since instead of being beaten up because you were the thirteenth child who took all the blame, it was because you were beaten up for being in love.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He whispers, head laying against your shoulder.

You’re silent, taking in just how perfect his voice is. It takes a while to muster up the courage to answer Peter, and when you do, the words are barely more than a breath of air, a puff released into the air. “I got beaten up because I’m…into boys.”

He sighs. “People are jerks.”

It takes even more courage to add this, too. But your foster dad is Steve Rogers, and you find the strength he’d want you to use. “Peter, I got beaten up because I like…I like you.”

From your peripheral vision, Peter gives you a funny look. “I knew about that since you sat beside me that day on the bus, man,” he tells you, quiet enough so that Aunt May in the kitchen can’t overhear him. “_________, I like you too. And what those jerks did to you doesn’t change that.”

* * *

Peter went away for a little bit after that, called away to what he said was a ‘summer camp in Germany’, but when he went away, so did the webslinger that hung around Queens, and most of your courage. But you went to summer school, still getting fantastic grades. You still played football, still getting great games. Your team were even in the semi-finals, something you were proud about. And all of this happened when there was no Steve, no Peter. When Peter did come back, he was a giant bruise, sore all over, but grinning ear to ear like he’d won the Nobel Peace Prize or something.

“I’m fine,” he’d laugh it off, and wheeze, happier than Larry, “It was great.”

You noticed that on his return, so was the Spider Man who patrolled the streets, and when he fell asleep next to you as you both lay beside each other in his double bed, watching the old _Carrie_ movie, you smiled down at his angelic sleeping face. “Glad you’re back, Spider Parker,” you whispered, and kissed his cheek.

But even Peter’s arrival back home beat Steve’s, and by now, you were staring to get worried. But you were not to be dissuaded – the newspapers said that your foster dad was a fugitive, and so was the other half of the Avengers who’d often come over for video game night. You didn’t trust the news headlines, though. Your foster dad was Captain _freakin’_ America. He wasn’t some menace to society, a threat – he was almost a hundred years old! He stood for the true values of the country, unlike some politicians who ruined lives and made everyone hostile to each other.

A few days later, when school went back, you got a weird text from a strange number, and when you read it, it wasn’t weird or strange at all. _Told you I’d be back_. As the day progressed, your phone got more messages, _I’m at hotel four blocks away_. While you were sitting at your lunch table outside, enjoying what sun you could get, another one came. _This afternoon?_

You showed Peter your phone, pocketing it when Flash walked by. Silently, he gave you a questioning look, to which you nodded. “It’s him,” you whisper, taking a bite of your egg and lettuce sandwich. “He’s back.” Peter’s quiet a little longer, and you add, “I know you went and fought him in Germany, Pete, I’m not an idiot.”

His eyes widened. “How –,”

You shake your head. “Dude, it was obvious. But do you want to ditch football practice with me and see him this afternoon?”

The answer was yes. And when the last bell rang, you both shared a glance in AP Math, and walked out the school gates together. Peter had texted his Aunt May to say he was hanging out with Ned, who said he’d say had you guys over for _Halo_ and Doritos. Though you weren’t as close with Ned as Peter was, you thanked the guy. He said it was no sweat – he knew about you two, and was totally into the idea for you guys to have a ‘secret date’, as he’d called it. If only he knew.

You first caught a bus, and then an Uber which circled the block in case anyone was following. In the back, you changed clothes (“I’ll pay you an extra fifty bucks if you don’t look, dude,” you told the driver) and walked through the alleyways toward the place where your foster dad Steve was staying. He’d discussed it with you once over hot cocoa; if he was ever in trouble, or you, for that matter, go to the map, and work out the nearest hotel, and as the crow flies, find the forth one and stay until it’s safe.

When you enter the lobby, it’s a little place, with a bellhop waiting by the stairs. She’s chewing gum and scrolling through something on her phone half-heartedly. When the door closes between the pair of you, she looks up at you both, and sighs.

“You must be here for Mr. Joseph, right?” She blows a purple bubble-gum bubble, and flicking her hair, and moves from leaning on the wall to inspect you. “You _________?” She asked you.

You nod. “I’m his son.”

She grinned. “He said I’d know it was you if you said that. And you, you with him?” She asked Peter.

He nodded, his hand finding yours, and lacing the fingers together like shoe laces in a perfect form. She waved you both forward, no more words shared at that, and following her sweep of dark hair, you go up two flights of stairs and another flight up a fire escape outside. By the time you get to the room’s window, you’re feeling a little out of breath, and woozy from how high up you all are, and nervous because this is the first time in months you’ll be seeing your foster dad, and this is the first time –

“Mr. Jo? It’s Kate.”

The window slides up, and she waves you in. As you enter, you see that with his back turned, Steve Rogers stands over a small hotel dining table. He’s wearing a sweater, and stonewash denim that you’re sure he didn’t own before. Even inside, there’s a cap on his head, and glancing over his shoulder, you see it’s pulled low. There’s a small amount of facial scruff growing on his face, and sunglasses over his eyes. It’s the perfect disguise; if you didn’t know who it was, you’d be unsure who it was before you.

“Thanks, Kate,” he replies, and hands her a handful of rolled-up bank notes. As she turns away, closing the window behind her, you all let out a collective breath. “_________, I missed you.”

“Missed you too.” You shrug, and add, “Mr. Joseph?”

Steve glances to see that Kate has left, and takes off his hat and sunglasses. Once they’re off, you see a smile under the growing golden beard, a chuckle following. “My father’s name. So, you’re _________’s friend from next door, Peter, right?” He asks. “Been keeping him out of trouble?” He grins.

Peter shakes his head. “It’s sort of the other way around, Mr. Rogers,” He admits. “_________’s a great guy.” He glances to you, and nudges you forward, a look in his eyes that you can read just at a glance.

“Steve, I…” You begin, and clearing your throat from a lump you didn’t know you’d gotten stuck in it, you start again. “I know you’re literally a fugitive now and you’ve done some pretty impressive things that have changed the way the world looks…but I’ve got something big to say.” You begin, mustering up all the strength you can. “I –,”

Steve frowns. “Should I be sitting down for this?”

You shrug. “I – I’m gay, Da-Steve.” You catch yourself on the _D_ word, and glancing to Peter, you hold a hand out for him to hold. “I know you’re all kinds of awesome and great at kicking Nazi butt, but…I had to tell you about this.”

Steve smiles. It’s a nice smile, like coming home after a rainy day to find the garden all watered and smelling of petrichor and a rainbow in the sky. It’s a nice smile, because as soon as it appears on his face, he takes you in his arms, and surrounds you with the biggest hug you can ever remember getting in your life, and holds you near.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers. “You’re so brave.” Peter sways behind you both, and glancing up, he gestures to him. “Come on, you can join this hug too.”

Peter hesitates. “I want to say sorry first, Captain Rogers,” he admits, still wavering in his spot. “I’m the kid that Mr. Stark brought to the fight at the airport.” He tells him, a red blush staining his cheeks. “I’m Spider-Man. I took your shield and I hit your friend Bucky.” He looks down at his shoes, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

Steve chuckles. “It was a stupid fight and I don’t care how you were roped into it; you’re still invited to hug me and my son.” As Peter joins in on the group hug, your eyes widen, and you look up at Steve. “Yeah, that’s why I invited you here. I’m going to officially adopt you, _________,” he tells you, smiling. He looks sort of like muscly blonde Santa for a second, but that’s only because of a twinkle in his eye and the kiss he plants on your head, and in that moment, you feel your heart soar.

God, when you’re in the foster system long enough, you lose hope, for mostly everything in life. But when you get that olive branch, a life line thrown to you, it’s like a candle in the darkness. Small, warm, promising. It’s hope. That you’ll never have to move schools again, never meet another family to soon throw you out, that you’ll have a father and a boyfriend around who’ll do their all to keep you safe and loved.

“Really?” you whisper, disbelieving. Beside you, Peter grins into your shoulder, giving you a sloppy kiss under your ear, “You’re not kidding with me?”

Steve nods. “I swear, _________.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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